Journal of a Courier
by Kingoftheplankton
Summary: The Courier's story is put together, piece by piece, holotape by holotape, page by page. Follow the tale, see the legend unfold... and learn the why of it.
1. Chapter 1

Journal of a Courier

___Holotape discovered in the home of Doctor Mitchell, resident of Goodsprings._

_Date of recording- October 19__th __2281 09:00_

Testing, one two. My name is Darron, and I am a Courier.

I woke up in a doctor's office today. Was almost blinded by a light on the ceiling. Why the fuck would you put a light above a recovering headshot patient? Surely, retina scorching would be further down the list of priorities on a doctor's aftercare checklist?

Yeah, I got shot in the head. Twice. Normally I would call that overkill, but in this situation I'm just happy it wasn't three times. It didn't hurt as much as you would imagine. In fact, I didn't feel a thing. Can't really remember much about it. It was some city-slicker type with a golden gun. I can still see it glistening in their firelight. What a pretentious bastard. A golden gun. Seriously.

Asked the Doc about him, but he was thin on details. Doctor Mitchell is the guy who saved my life. Seems as surprised about it as I am. He's a nice guy all around, didn't even ask for a fee. Just as well, my entire personal wealth has dropped to the princely sum of 18 caps. Strangely smooth skin for an older gentleman, but it crinkles around the eyes. What little hair he has sits in a halo around his head. Bald as a Nightstalker egg on top. Hell of a moustache though. Anytime I try to grow one I end up looking like a sexual predator.

Doc says I got dug out of a shallow grave by a cowboy robot named Victor. Had to shake my head a few times after that, thought the Doc must have left a few bullet fragments in my skull. (Reminder- Stop shaking my head. Hurts way too much.) I remember walking towards Goodsprings, in the middle of the night, desperate for somewhere to sit down and relax, when everything went black. Next thing I know, I'm staring up at slick and his Khan buddies. Didn't know where I was, but Doc says I was just up the hill from Goodsprings, where they bury townsfolk. Well, I got my rest all right. I got more rest than I'm ever like to want again.

Doc let me look at myself in a reflecto-tron earlier. His stitching is amazing, everything looks right, though there are sure to be a few sick looking scars. Hopefully they get obscured by my hair. Stubbly at the minute, but on long runs it comes out a fiery red. My jagged and many times broken nose is still a little swollen, I can feel it through my bandages. Big, amber mournful eyes hidden by heavy purple lids. Lips covered in cuts and peppered with sand. As I mentioned, bandaged up pretty heavily. That's why my voice might sound a little muffled. Doc suggested I keep a journal, both written and spoken. Even gave me a number of pencils, pens and journals. Says it'll help keep my faculties sharp.

Sounds good to me, but goddamn, this thing is heavier than I thought it would be. Can barely lift my arm as it is without this fucking Pip-Boy weighing me down. Doc attached it to my central nervous system while I was out. Said it substituted for his malfunctioning medical equipment, helped him track my recovery via the Vault Boy grinning out of the screen. The thing is, once it's on, the only way it's coming off is with the rest of my arm. According to Mitchell I'd be dead without it. I'll play around with it soon, but the light is hard to look at just now.

Better be worth it. Feel like an idiot yammering away into my wrist.

Can't fault his aftercare though. Got me on my feet and helped me stagger over to a Vit-o-Matic Vigor Tester. I recall using one back west, but for the life of me I can't remember the results. Shame really, because I'd love to have done a comparison. No surprises this time around, anyway. Intelligence lit up, because I'm a genius. Agility was okay, probably helped by the fact that I've got a small frame. "Little spit of a thing" is the technical term, I believe. Got me out of serving though, which seems a fair trade to me. NCR's loss, my gain.

My Luck was highest all of all though. Sort of self-explanatory. I got blasted at point-blank range and I managed to avoid all the common ill effects associated with that condition, including a terminal case of the deaths. I've seen unfortunate fellas go down after just getting clipped by a stray bullet, and I managed to take two slugs right between the eyes and live to tell the tale.

My Perception was average, but when I find a pair of glasses it'll be better. Never could see worth shit without them. My natural charm shone through, meaning respectable Charisma. Always found it easy to get on with people, could usually make them go along with me. Wasn't uncommon to have a number of strays trailing behind me from settlement to settlement, drawn by my magnetic personality. Or maybe it's because I paid them. One of the great mysteries of life, I guess.

Few matters of concern though. Have to start working out again, because my Strength needs to be higher. At this rate I'd have trouble pushing open a saloon door. To be honest, I'm just too small and intelligent to do the heavy lifting. I can _pay _people to carry my shit. Or just buy a brahmin. Brahmin usually smell better than the mercenaries I can afford to hire.

On that note, maybe I should do some long distance running or something. I won't last long out there with Endurance like mine. You would think being a Courier would require you to have the endurance of Vault City filibusterer, but I managed to muddle along well enough all these years. Everyone got their letters, or their cases of water. Never failed a delivery yet. Until that asshole stole my Platinum Chip. I didn't walk all the way from the Hub to Primm to be murdered. Everyone swore by these Mojave Express guys. "Johnson Nash is a good guy," they said. "Easy job, and you can gamble in Vegas when you're done." Didn't even meet the guy, place was empty, package on the table. Should have stayed in NCR. Should have stayed in the Hub.

Doc says I've been out for a week now, but that isn't going to stop me finding slick and those fucking Khans and finishing my delivery. After that, I'm finished with courier work. Maybe I'll go back to Reno, become a fluffer. Anything's better than getting shot in the head.

Mitchell seemed pleased though, made a few jokes. Said the bullets must have done my brain some good. Cheeky bastard. When I was done, he put me (mercifully) on the couch. Hit me with some Rorschach Blot Tests. Followed it up with some word association and made me fill in a form about my medical history. He said he wanted to build a picture of my skills and weaknesses, and then he could see if anything has changed because of the shooting. See if my behavioural tendencies have altered. It was all a bit fascinating to be honest- Well, it would have been if my head hadn't been covered in blood-stained wrapping and I was scratching it like a Deathclaw tearing at a Brahmin.

Anyway, Doc was spot on. He had a list of skills, and tagged a few that I excel in and a few that I could do with improving. I carry an old combat knife that I looted from the very first raider I killed on my belt, but all I can really do with it is flail wildly and hope I slash something important on the other guy. Mostly I use it to open Nuka-Cola or the warm, cloudy piss that passes for beer these days. As for hand-to-hand? My brother was the fighter. Big into Pugilism Illustrated, always sparring with anyone he could get his meaty ham-fists on. Used to knock me about something awful, until one day I shot him with a BB gun.

Explosives, as well. Keep them as far away from me as possible. Remember the first time I tried to kill a Radscorpion with dynamite. Nearly blew my own hand off. I seem to recall this was before my parents realized I needed glasses, even though I was bumping into walls everyday. Nothing like the very real threat of imminent dismemberment to sting your guardians into action.

Doc said I was good natured, preferred talking it out to killing people. It's one thing being able to fight, but all that blood… Do you know how many perfectly good trench coats I've had to get rid of because some idiot raider's face ended up splattered over the length and breadth of it? Honestly- flattery, bribery and straight up intimidation are just so much more elegant. "The gift of the gab," Ma called it. Pops had it, and my ass-wipe brother definitely did, but theirs was a sort of down-to-earth one of the guys camaraderie. Nothing like my intellectually driven reasoning abilities. That's why Doc tagged speech and barter. Always wondered if I should have been a trader, but the incredibly low life expectancy always put me off. Granted, courier isn't a much safer life. Two bullets in the head's proof.

Thankfully, I'm not entirely useless in hostile situations. Give me a good old fashioned pistol any day. Nothing like a good six-shooter, drawn quick and fired so fast the other guy is dead before he can shit himself at how incredibly unlucky he is to be facing me. As for a rifle? I'll hit any target you want. Growing up in a military family definitely has it's advantages, first and foremost being that I can shoot just as well (if not better) than any soldier. Thing is, I always get very nervous around energy weapons. Don't know what it is, but anytime someone hands me a laser or plasma rifle I feel like it's going to blow up in my face. Collect the ammo though, whenever I come across it. Microfusion cells, energy cells and electron charge packs are worth a shit-load of caps if you find the right buyer.

Doc says because of my high Intelligence my scientific knowledge has real potential to be developed. Never really had a problem hacking those old RobCo terminals, the termlink code is laughable at times. Come across the odd one which has a difficult to pin down password, but not often enough to be a problem. I love finding out what's on them, even if it's just old shipping details from Pre-War companies or a few sordid e-mails between lovers. Between the 'Disengage Lock' commands and my quick hands, coupled with my sharp (glasses assisted) eyes, only the most difficult locks are beyond my skills. I've made more money with my screwdriver and bobby pins than I have in any job.

As for medical matters... Well, Ma was a doctor from the Boneyard. And when your brother is an overbearing bully, you learn right quick how to stem a bloody nose and set a sprained ankle. That said, treating headshots is a little out of my range. I thought it was out of everyone's range, but apparently not.

Fuck, am I tired. Unfortunately, much as I would like to get up right now and start on the long and winding trail to slick, I wouldn't get very far. Doc says rest, and tomorrow he's going to put me to work. Sounds vaguely ominous. Maybe he's a slaver. That would be hilarious, if slightly depressing.


	2. Chapter 2

Journal of a Courier

_Journal pages discovered in the home of Doctor Mitchell, resident of Goodsprings._

_Estimated date of writing- October 20__th__ 2281._

_The phrase "Fear the hawk" is scrawled at the top of the page, in the right hand corner._

Day Two

Feel a lot better today. Once I woke up Doc Mitchell unwound my bandages and ran a critical eye over the damage that golden gun inflicted upon my handsome visage. Seemed reasonably happy to leave it out and exposed, and luckily enough the scars are already starting to get covered up by my rapidly growing hair. Still feels tender as hell though. And I could do with running a razor over my face, before I get one of those scruffy looking survivalist beards.

Mitchell got called into Goodsprings today. Someone named "Sunny Smiles" (what a fucking stupid name) got bitten by a gecko and he had to treat them. Gave me plenty of time to amble around, though, and have a look at the doctor's digs. Mitchell had asked me to clean up around the place, sterilize some of his equipment in his kitchen sink, give some of his clothes a rub with abraxo, that type of thing. More than happy to help him out, least I could do. Less than the least. Felt good to be up and moving, as well, and I'm not in as much pain as I thought I would be. Small mercies.

After I put my shift of being a housewife in, I took to tinkering with a 9mm Submachine Gun that was lying on a crate of Sunset Sarsaparilla in Mitchell's office. Piece of shit was fucked, but after about an hour of cleaning the damn thing and cobbling together some replacement parts from whatever was lying around I had it firing again. Or would have, had I any ammo at the time. Rooted around in some of the boxes scattered about, found a Laser Pistol which is in decent condition. Few energy cells as well. Sell those before I reduce myself to ash, build up my pitiful coffers.

Doc got back around midday, or thereabouts. Thanked me for my help and then threw two gecko steaks into the oven and got to cooking them. Payment from Sunny McRidiculousname, it appears. She's the law around these parts, according to Mitchell. I think I'm gonna have to have a word with this Sheriff Smiles, and ask her where her justice was when I was getting tied up and shot. Steaks went down a treat though. Not enough to reduce the score, but still. Good steaks. Been on the road so long now, it's nice to have a meal like that and not have watch my back for raiders and cazadores.

When we were done, Doc sat me down and asked me what I was planning on doing from here on out. Very frank and straightforward, Doctor Mitchell. So I told him I was going to find slick and kill him in the most painful way I can dream up. Doc stared me down then, brow furrowed. And then he told me about the Pip-Boy. Turns out, his is no ordinary Pip-Boy.

Doc says he "won" it during his stay in the Vault he grew up in, Vault 21, of which he is reluctant to say more than he needs to. Anyone else, I'd have thought they stole it, but Mitchell really doesn't seem the type. Nevertheless, I'm nothing if not persistent, as well as persuasive, and so after some wheedling I gathered it was some sort of prize up for grabs to all denizens of his particular Vault. Prototype technology, says Doc, developed by Vault-Tec for the old U.S. Army. It can instantly convert anything I scan into data, so that it literally disappears from my hand and _into the goddamn Pip-Boy! _

I tried it with a mug and stood open-mouthed when the thing just up and vanished. I cycled through to the items section, and there it was, looking back up at me. "Coffee Mug." I selected it and it reappeared in the Pip-Boy's glove. I asked Mitchell why on earth he would give something like this to anyone; let alone some random patient. He had a weird look on his face when he answered. "I know what it's like to have something taken from you." Didn't press it. If he wanted to tell me more, he would have. Before it got too awkward, Doc pressed on, telling me about some of the other unbelievable features this wrist-magician is capable of.

The thing is hooked up to keep track of my skills, neatly arranged into different categories, like Guns and Speech. Mitchell even created a pseudonym for me. SPECIAL stands for Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility and Luck. Doc says he lifted it straight from the Vigor Tester, the loveable old scamp. The skills are numbered out of 100, and the SPECIAL is out of ten. Doc says they'll increase or decrease depending on how I'm doing. Don't ask me how it works, because I don't have a clue, but it's going to be unbelievably useful. I could be a one man caravan with this thing, and wouldn't draw attention the way they do.

Well, thanks to the Doc, I'm locked and loaded, and going after slick as soon as I can. He had four different caches of weapons and supplies with him, which he had stashed somewhere in town. As he handed me them one by one, he explained their back-story.

First off was some Lightweight Leather Armor, accompanied by a Sturdy Caravan Shotgun with a decent amount of ammo for it. Bit too up close and personal for me, but I'd rather have the option and choose not to utilize it. Pair of binoculars as well, and four repair kits which are a luxury out here that I rarely get to take advantage of. Jury rigging is the name of the game usually. Doc says he was given the stuff by the surviving members of a caravan that had been attacked outside town. Doc had saved two of their lives but had been unable to save the third, who had died from a poisoned spear wound. They gave him the gear in lieu of payment. I would have pressed more, but the second batch of gear was even better.

He had an Armored Vault 13 Jumpsuit for me to wear, which is exactly the type of thing I'd use under normal circumstances. Gave me a Weathered 10mm Pistol as well, perfect for a reliable and durable side-arm. Great condition, and enough ammo for the first few scrapes I get into. Mitchell must have been maintaining it all this time. Wonder what he planned to do with this stuff before I came along? He pulled out a fully-filled and deceptively deep canteen with '13' emblazoned on it in yellow over blue. Lifesaver out in the wastes, having water readily on hand. And as an added bonus, five stimpaks. Mitchell claims he had this stuff from a patient he saved from a Radscorpion sting. Apparently when the guy woke up, he just strode right out of the place, leaving everything behind him. Doc says he was an older man, weathered and hale. It's a strange thought, but… In Shady Sands there's a statue of the Vault Dweller, and this stuff looks a hell of a lot like the stuff he's wearing and holding in that statue. But he'd be long dead by now, surely. Maybe it was just some weird copycat. People these days are into everything.

The next batch came off an unfortunate mercenary who tried to rob the bar. Sunny Smiles, made short work of that idiot, so Doc is giving it all to me. Don't know how he got his hands on it, but once again I'm not going to be complaining. An incredibly light version of metal armor is the pick of the bunch. I'd reckon it's about 2/3rds the weight of a normal set of metal armor, which is normally way too heavy for me to move comfortably in. Still looks pretty hefty, and considering my shiny new Vault 13 suit I don't think I'll be wearing it much, unless I know I'm in for a serious scrap. Three Super Stimpaks and three Doctor's Bags are an amazing luxury I didn't expect, seeing as you usually pay upwards of a hundred caps for the former and seventy-five for the latter. But I'm a lot more wary about the Grenade Rifle I received, along with twenty 40mm grenades. As I may have previously mentioned, things that go boom aren't really my cup of Brahmin milk. The only good thing is that the grenades are expensive and should net me a few caps.

And finally, and most uselessly of all, a collection of primitive shit taken from some tribal who was going to the Great Khans to become one of them, and naturally had to renounce his old ways. Couple of throwing spears, some 'armor' that gives less coverage than a Reno hooker's underwear and a vial or two of nasty looking venom that I am in no way qualified to handle. There's a decent looking Machete for those last gasp, desperate situations, which I will use, but the rest can stay here. I can't see me getting my revenge with a throwing spear, somehow.

After I was all stocked up with my new slick-hunting gear, Mitchell gave me my delivery order from Mojave Express. All this for 250 caps. What the fuck was I thinking? I usually don't get out of bed for less than 500. The more I consider this whole enterprise the more I doubt my own sanity. Was I really that bored? NCR seems to shrink by the day, and doing the Big Circle circuit gets so very monotonous. Well, no more. I'm finishing my final delivery and getting as far away from NCR as I can. Head east maybe. The Legion sound like a huge drag though. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for monolithic oppressive dictatorships, but men in skirts… Something about that just doesn't sit right with me. If I could get through their territory unnoticed, loop around Denver maybe, I could strike out for the other coast. See our nation's famed capital. Take in the Chryslus Building.

If any of it is even still standing. Who am I kidding? I'll end up back West, hand out, waiting for payment from some asshole Bighorner rancher, trying to avoid raiders and the taxman. But at least I'll be flushed with the post-coital glow of revenge killing. I guess my first step now is heading back down to Primm. Johnson Nash better be around this time, I want to know everything there is to know about this Platinum Chip and why those Khans and slick wanted it so badly.

Mitchell intimated that I should be okay to stumble around town for a while tomorrow, muttering something about 'unnatural' powers of recovery. Music to my ears, I don't like being cooped up like this for too long. First on the agenda is talking to the cowboy robot that dug me out of the ground. Got more than a few questions for this Victor.

* * *

_Addendum_

_Sir, there was another holotape duct-taped together with these pages. I have transcribed it's contents here, and sent the hard copy via courier to headquarters as we discussed. The holotape is different from those we have come to associate with the Courier, his coming from the prototype Pip-Boy he utilizes. This one is marked "Big MT." The two voices belong to Doctor Mitchell (confirmed) and an unknown second person, who we are assuming is male. The tape has no date or time attached._

_- The sound of a door knocking, faint footsteps shuffling to the door, the door opens-_

_M- "Yes? Can I help you?"_

_?- "Doctor Mitchell?"_

_M- "That's me. What can I do you for?"_

_?- "I have a question about your latest patient."_

_M- "That Courier fella? You just missed him. He left-"_

_?- "I know where he went. The question is for you, not him."_

_-Two pairs of footsteps, one advancing, one retreating, the door closes-_

_M- "Hey now, this is my house, and I don't recall inviting you in. I think you'd best leave."_

_?- "What was his name? Tell me that, and I will leave immediately."_

_- Several seconds of silence-_

_M- "Why should I tell you?"_

_?- "Because I will kill you if you do not. And when I shoot you in the head, I assure you, you will not get back up. Will the knowledge that you maintained doctor-patient confidentiality comfort you in your grave?"_

_- Several seconds of silence-_

_M- "Darron. His name was Darron. I saw it on his delivery order."_

_?- "His surname. What was his surname?"_

_M- "I don't know, he didn't-"_

_- The sound of a gun drawing, a rapid burst of gunfire, possibly 12.7mm, the sound of a body crashing to the floor, tape ends-_


	3. Chapter 3

This is the first time I've ever had used an author's note, so forgive me if it seems a little contrived. I'd just like to use it to thank anyone who has been reading my stories. I appreciate your patience. Special mention to Sevroy, who is a complete legend.

This fiction began as a transcription of my latest play-through of F:NV. As I played, I kept a log of events and my thoughts on how the Courier would react to the events occurring around him. As I got further along, a back-story developed almost of it's own accord, and it struck how _right _it seemed for my particular Courier in this particular play-through. Most of it is down on paper, and now all that remains is typing it out and editing it. I hope you'll stick with it. If you do, you will receive one (1) free internet biscuit. Thank you.

* * *

Journal of a Courier

_Journal pages discovered in the home of Sunny Smiles, sheriff of Goodsprings and known associate of the Courier._

_Confirmed date of writing October 21__st__ 2281_

Day Three

Thank fuck for Mitchell. Before I walked out of the house he handed me a pair of glasses he had lying around, newly polished. By some miracle they were as perfect as glasses are like to get out here, and as soon as I put them on I looked at my Pip-Boy. Perception leapt up from 4 to 6, and it was like seeing clearly for the first time. Good thing the glasses were tinted though, because, genius that I am, I chose midday to walk out in the blast furnace of the Mojave and was greeted by a blaze of light so strong it made the one above Mitchell's bed seem pale and dim. After a moment of adjustment, Goodsprings emerged slowly into view. Nothing special about it in the slightest. The heat was almost a shock after the cool interior of Mitchell's house, and I put on the fedora that I had 'borrowed' form the Doc in the hopes of fending off sunburn. An actual tumbleweed blew past as I stood on the raised hill where Mitchell's house stood, followed by what had to be Victor.

I'd heard horror stories about the big, bad Vegas Securitrons, but apparently they are essentially a television screen propelled about by a single wheel. Victor spotted me and introduced himself with a "Well howdy, partner! Might I say you're looking fit as a fiddle." We both went up to the graveyard, him telling me about the group that shot me. Just as I thought, that slick bastard was leading a group of Great Khans. Was a very strange feeling looking down into a grave where I had been buried. I studied the area around it while Victor shot a few Bloatflies and a rogue Bark Scorpion that were buzzing around. Sounded like he was using a 9mm SMG, unless my skill has wholly deserted me.

By the side of my final resting place were a number of cigarette butts that had been discarded. As I picked one up and turned it around in my fingers, I could see in my mind's eye that snake stubbing one out just before he shot me. I quietly collected every single one and put them into my Pip-Boy, before I turned to go. A glint to my right caught my eye, however, and I spied a cool little curio sitting at the foot of another poor soul's sepulchre. It was a snow globe of Goodsprings, with Vault-Boy inside. Most would think it was junk, but I've done enough trading to know that there is always a buyer for things. Some nut out there could be looking for this exact thing, and might be willing to buy it for a pile of caps.

Chet is not that nut. In fact, he's a low-balling bastard. When I tried to sell my tribal shit along with my grenades and that rifle, he gave me a terrible offer and it took almost half an hour of haggling before I walked out of there, pissed off but lighter and a little less mired in poverty. He had virtually nothing of any worth though, no weapons or decent modifications that caught my eye. But he's all this town has in the way of trade, so until I get down to Primm he'll have to do. He also had nothing on my assailants beyond what I already know- Slick is some kind of city-boy and crossing the khans is usually bad for your health. He did tell me to check out Vegas if I get the chance, specifically Gomorrah. "Best whores in the Mojave," he said. "There's one called Joana, best 150 caps I ever spent." Please. He should get his little weasel face down to New Reno. Those girls will blow you so hard you'll fly out of town, and for a lot less caps. Still, made a note of it in my Pip-Boy. I am human, after all.

It was when I exited Chet's store that my Pip-Boy crackled to life, and I learned that the little wonder had something I had been sorely missing, the cherry on my sweet-roll, if you will. A fucking radio. Two stations appeared straight away- Radio New Vegas and Mojave Music Radio. Tried them both. The latter is just pure music, the former has a DJ named Mr. New Vegas, who seemed to be finishing a news broadcast just as I tuned in with that immortal phrase 'Mojave, Mo' Problems.' I was about to switch back to MMR until he started playing Frank Sinatra. Now that is exactly what I'm talking about.

But they were not the only broadcasts the Pip-Boy picked up.

There were four more. One from an old acquaintance- Jed Masterson, caravan master of the Happy Trails Caravan Company. His deep, booming bass voice echoed out of the radio on a loop, inviting any adventuring types to roll up to the Northern Passage by the end of December. Seems one of my old employers is heading back up Utah way, specifically Zion Valley. Probably looking to hook up with the New Canaanites. Last time I was up there- fuck, must be a good four years- they were really flourishing. NCR obviously had their designs on the place, but then, they'd have designs on a pile of Brahmin shit if they thought there was a way to make money from it. If I get this Platinum Chip business finished in time, I think I'll take him up on his offer. Always liked New Canaan. Could even stay there if I felt like it.

The second of the four transmissions to get through was a station of jazz music. For some reason, the Pip-Boy identified it as "Mysterious Broadcast." The music is fine, but there's a strange undercurrent that sets my teeth on edge. Feels like the noise is building up behind my eyes, and I could feel a headache coming on. The map-marker corresponds to "Mojave Drive-In Movie Theatre" according to the Pip-Boy. I think if my travels take me that way I'll investigate, if for no other reason than to shut the thing down. I can't seem to delete the transmission or block it any way. Strange.

Then there's the woman's voice. It's almost hypnotic, really. It's a broadcast from the Sierra Madre Casino. Well, that's what it says. I doubt that, the place is supposed to be just a legend. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say it's some sort of ambush. Doesn't sound like Legion's _modus operandi. _The signal is getting beamed out from a place called 'Abandoned BoS Bunker.' Maybe the Brotherhood are luring people in to take any tech they might have? Seems a bit haphazard, but after Operation: Sunburst I guess they must be desperate. Avoiding that one. Not suckering me in, the techno-religious mentalists.

And finally, I appear to have a stalker. Fantastic. Some nut calling himself 'Ulysses' sent me a message. It said he and I are due a 'reunion.' First thing I want to know is how he got a message to this Pip-Boy when I've only had it on my arm for around a day. The second thing I want to know is why the fuck I seem to be a magnet to people like Ulysses and that those khans. What is it about me that makes people want to follow me around with the intention of doing me harm? I'm half-expecting to wake up one day soon with this guy standing over me, jerking off. Woke up to worse things, I have to say, but it's not exactly my preference.

Mitchell had pointed me to the saloon so Sunny Smiles, she of the spastic moniker, could give me a few tips on surviving in the desert. Now granted, I did get ambushed, bound hand and foot, robbed, called some nasty names and then murdered, but come on. I'm a fucking courier. How am I supposed to be a delivery man in post-apocalyptic wasteland if I don't know how to take care of myself? I've dodged many a Deathclaw on my runs. Those khans and that slimy bastard just caught me off guard. But, being in the good doctor's debt to the merry tune of one whole life, I decided to take his advice and see the sheriff of Goodsprings so I could benefit from any knowledge she had to dispense to me. You're never so smart that you can't learn a new lesson. My killers taught me that.

Before I walked into the place, an old timer stopped me. He was sitting on an old rocking chair just at the front door and had the whitest beard I'd ever seen. How he keeps it like that with the amount of crap in the air I have no idea. Reminded me of a picture book I read about a fat pervert that used to scramble down chimneys once a year and molest children before the bombs dropped. Easy Pete didn't seem that type, but I suppose you never know. He had a few titbits about the uneasy situation in the Mojave. Seems the Legion has been upping their game in recent months. Not that I give a shit, but it's hard to believe a bunch of cross-dressers is giving NCR so much trouble. Been out of the frontier loop for a while, good to get the latest news again. Especially as it seems NCR is losing. We jawed a while longer and then I tipped my hat to the old prospector and went inside.

As it turned out, Sunny Smiles had plenty of wasteland wisdom to pass on. The first one was- Get myself a dog. It's strange, but I've been under the threat of imminent death many times, from all manner of creatures and people, and while I have been afraid in those situations, it's always been an abstract, fluttering kind of terror that drives me to quick, decisive action. But there is just something deeply disturbing about a hostile dog growling at you. Must be the fear of man's best friend being man's highly ironic death. So when I walked in to the Prospector Saloon, and Cheyenne fixed me with a laser-like glare with her mismatched eyes, I froze clean up. Thankfully, Sunny herself called her off and the mutt calmed right down, giving me a good sniff and even licking one of my fingers.

Sunny Smiles is indeed quite cheerful. I found myself taking an immediate liking to her, especially as she prevented her dog from tearing my throat out. Small, bouncy thing, with an easy grin. Could tell the Varmint Rifle in her hands wasn't the first gun she'd ever held, if you know what I mean. Made a mental guess at ex-military, maybe even a ranger. Asked her a couple questions about the area, quickest way to Primm, local wildlife, things like that. Told me to avoid I-15 north, place is crawling with "critters that just get mad if you shoot them.' As if I didn't already know that. Everyone seems to be treating me like a complete simpleton, and I must say it's getting rather tiresome. She even handed me a few bobby pins and a Locksmith's Reader and told me to try the safe in the old schoolhouse. Like I need the magazine. I was picking the lock on my brother's door and catching him 'reading' La Fantoma since I was knee-high to a Mole Rat.

And then we went Gecko hunting.

According to Sunny, they were congregating around the local source of Goodsprings' clean water, and it had been in an attempt to drive them off when she had received the bite that Mitchell was fixing up the day before. Showed me the wound, nasty looking thing on her left arm. Fixin' for a little revenge, Ms. Smiles was. And with the fact that I owe the town a blood debt fresh in my mind, I decided to tag along. Before we set off, she handed me a Varmint Rifle that looked decidedly less than deadly and told me to shoot some sarsaparilla bottles out the back of the saloon. Little smirk on her face when she said it. Three bullets and some flying shards of glass later, I handed her it back and pulled my 10mm. She just smiled the wider, and told me to follow her. We set off at a steady jog, me a few steps behind. She has one hell of an ass, Sunny Smiles.

We made short work of the little bastards, barely broke a sweat. Well, I mean that figuratively. Literally, I was drenched in the stuff. Should have wore the vault suit instead of the leather. Was all worth it though. Saved a local resident from a gang of the creatures, got myself some nice cold drinking water for my trouble. Sunny brought me down to a campfire by the trail, and showed me how to make healing powder using a Broc Flower and a Xander Root, smiling her smug little smile all the time. It was my turn to smile when I showed her that with a empty syringe and the same ingredients, you can make a stimpak. "Takes a steady hand and precise timing, but if you're clever and quick that knowledge will save your life." She thanked me for the knowledge, a playful glint in her eye.

We walked back to the saloon after that, in a pregnant silence. Trudy changed that rather quickly. I know her type- chatty, bossy and intensely proud of carving herself out a life on the frontier of post-apocalyptic society. I was acutely aware that this was Trudy's bar, in Trudy's town. So I flashed her my best, Lady-Killing smile, and held up the head of a decapitated gecko. Sunny laughed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up when she did.

Trudy welcomed me in, sat me down, plied me with drink, and tried to worm my back-story out of me. I got the feeling she is not as immediately trusting as the rest of the residents have been, which would offend a lesser man. Me? I wouldn't trust me as far as I could throw me, and was able to dance through her questions with poise and misdirection. Sold her a line about amnesia. Can't believe she bought it. Amnesia? Seriously? Why exactly would two bullets to the skull render me unable to remember my past? It would take a missile to erase the memories my brother left me with.

Had quite a lot to drink. So did Sunny. Didn't have to pay a cap after I tinkered with Trudy's radio. In fact I came out 75 caps ahead. She also had intriguing information concerning the men who tried to shuffle me off my mortal coil. The khans were being repeatedly 'shushed' by the monochrome murderer, which suggest some secrecy is important to his little enterprise. Perhaps I can use that at a later date.

Was meant to return to Doc Mitchell, but honestly at times today I quite forgot I was a recovering headshot patient. It seems I am blessed with incredible powers of recovery. What I don't have is a great endurance for alcohol. So Sunny and I weaved home together, and I collapsed onto a couch in her abode, drunkenly hoping Mitchell would have some sort of detox chem when I next saw him.

* * *

_Addendum_

_Sir, attached to this journal is a large and expertly drawn map of the Mojave. In the north, south, east and west are four beautiful illustrations the likes of which I have never seen. The hard copy is on it's way to you via courier, but I have described them here in hopes of better understanding them. We believe they correspond somehow to the transmissions the Courier received on his Pip-Boy that he alludes to in his journal, but we are not certain of the correlation with the iconography as of yet. _

_To the south are six figures, drawn rather esoterically. They could be eyes, or stylistic atoms. Either way, they float eerily above a monstrous dome. _

_To the east are four poker chips. All four are connected by a chain. On each is a different figure, drawn as if from behind. The first is a hulking, blue monster. The second is small, bald man, with a sniper rifle strapped to his back. The third is a well dressed man, a microphone stand at his feet. And the fourth is an old man, with a collar around his neck._

_In the north is a cross, and crucified on it is what appears to be a man wrapped head to toe in bandages. He is depicted as crying blood, and is surrounded by yellow flame. At his feet, two groups of people are gathered. One group is bowing, and seem to be getting consumed by the same fire that engulfs the bandaged figure. The others stand away, arms folded._

_To the west is simply a collection of stars, coloured blue, white and red._


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note- Wow, so my traffic pretty much tripled after the latest chapter. Thanks for that, everyone. I'd like to thank Yoshtar, DeLyse, jukehero461 and Sevroy for reviewing so far, and all the people who have added my story to their follow and favourite lists. Thank you very much.

There are a lot of players in this Courier's tale. In this chapter, some of them pop up, but there are more down the line. We've been moving at a slow pace so far, but it is my hope we'll be out of Goodsprings by the end of Chapter 5. So thanks again, and enjoy.

* * *

Journal of a Courier

_Holotape discovered in the home of Sunny Smiles, sheriff of Goodsprings and known associate of the Courier. 'DC' denotes Darron the Courier, 'SS' denotes Sunny Smiles, and 'CH' denotes Cheyenne, Sunny Smiles' dog._

_Estimated date of recording October 22__nd__ 2281. _

Day Four

-The sounds of a person regaining consciousness, coughing and groaning.-

DC- "Eugh… I feel worse now than I did when I woke up after getting shot in the head. That's the effect of 200 year old scotch, I guess. Fuck me, I'm never drinking again. I-"

CH- "WOOF!"

DC- "Argh, my head..."

CH- "WOOF!"

DC- "Cheyenne, seriously, shut the fuck up or I'll turn you into a belt."

CH- "Aroo?"

SS- "So you're awake then? My, my. I don't think I've ever seen someone projectile vomit the way you can. You're really something. And not in a good way."

DC- "To answer your question, _sheriff, _of course I'm awake. How could I not be with that rotten mutt yelping in my goddamn ear? Please, explain to me exactly how you and that flea-bitten hellhound can be so damn chipper after last night? My brain's ricocheting off the inside of my skull."

SS- "I ain't called Sunny Smiles for nothin'. Not my fault you're a miserable bastard."

DC- "You know what would put a smile on this miserable bastard's face again? Something to make my mouth seem less like an especially dry piece of shit."

SS- "You're lucky you're good-looking. Catch. Goodsprings' finest, that. Should cure what ails ya. Were you talking to yourself?"

DC- "Uh… I was, yes. Doc Mitchell- Fuck, that water is manna from heaven- said it would be good for me. You know, stave off short-term memory loss, that type of thing. Pip-Boy has a recorder on it, so I can listen to any of my recordings and remember what I may have forgotten."

SS- "So you're recordin' this conversation?"

DC- "Is that a problem?"

SS- "Not as long as you ain't gonna be snoopin' on people, tryin' to trick them into sayin' somethin' stupid. Can't abide folks pokin' their snouts in other's business where they don't belong."

DC- "That's not my style, Sunny. It's strictly doctor's orders."

SS- "Strange you should mention Mitchell. There was some funny business last night up at his house… Get your drunken hide up, and come see."

DC- "The Doc? Is he okay? Hang on, lemme find this goddamn boot… There you are, you little bastard. Where's my hat? I'll wilt without it. Thanks, Cheyenne. Sorry about the belt thing. And the flea-bitten part. You're not so bad. Hang on, I'm going to change into my Vault Suit."

SS- "Fine then- Whoa! How did you _do _that?"

DC- "I know, right? Unbelievable. It's the Pip-Boy. Advanced model. Mitchell gave it to me when I came around. Can convert anything into data. I think it's some sort of molecular assembler, but I haven't really had a chance to examine the thing properly. Needless to say, changing my clothes at the touch of a button is the least it can do. Fuck me, that water and this suit feel better than sex."

SS- "You realise I just saw you naked as the day you came squallin' into the world, don'tcha? You gonna do that every time you get sweaty? Give everyone a bit too much of an eyeful?"

DC- "…I didn't say it was perfect. Some tinkering, maybe-"

SS- "I'm not complaining."

DC- "Oh! Oh, okay then, yeah, that's uh… Well, good."

SS- "Stop trippin' over your tongue and come on."

DC- "Right behind you. You don't mind if I keep talking into this thing, do you? Kind of in the habit now."

SS- "Whatever works for you, Darron. Just try to hurry it up."

DC- "Uh… thanks? So, um, yeah. Yeah. I drank too much. But you can't really blame me, it was a celebration of my survival. If there's ever an occasion to have a swig or two of scotch, it's surviving a headshot from six feet away. That said, I won't be doing it again for a while, I hope. Never was much of a drinker. Lot of couriers are, I find. Law of the road dictates that if two couriers pass by each other they have to share a swallow. It was an old tradition even when I was starting out. Many's the time I've found myself sipping with a guy or gal who's already quite unsteady on their feet. Could be they just bump into a lot of couriers."

SS- "I'm glad I don't have to listen to your recordings back the way you do. They must be pretty dull, if that last spiel is anything to go by."

DC- "You sure you're a sheriff, Sunny? Sounds like you're a comedian at heart."

SS- "I do know one joke, now that you mention it. You wanna hear?"

DC- "Why do I have a feeling I'm going to regret this? Okay, shoot."

SS- "It's a knock-knock joke. You start."

DC- "Knock-knock."

SS- "Who's there?"

DC- "…Shit."

-Several seconds of laughter from SS-

DC- "I should have kept my fucking mouth shut."

SS- "A girl can dream."

-Several seconds of silence-

DC- "…Your name is stupid."

* * *

_Journal pages discovered in the Prospector Saloon, Goodsprings._

_Estimated date of writing October 22__nd__, 2281. _

Being murdered has done wonders for my popularity. One of my new fans broke into Mitchell's house and starting asking questions about me. Nasty, pointed questions that I really did not appreciate being introduced to the town's consciousness. Mitchell was a trooper though, defended me even with a rifle pointed in his face. Didn't even make a phoney name up to mollify this creep. But the tale gets curiouser and curiouser. Just as this thuggish riddler was about to blast the good doctor, someone saved his life. Another man appeared behind Mitchell's assailant and unloaded a sub-machine gun into his legs. Mitchell thought he was getting filled with lead, but after a few seconds of having them screwed closed he opened his eyes and, in his words, "A demonic angel stood there, arms folded, framed in the doorway. His face was obscured by a great curtain of thick, limb-like hair, but two eyes shone through the tendrils like hellish flaming stars. And then, he was gone, quick as he appeared." That was all Sunny and I could get out of him regarding this mysterious figure. Never had Mitchell down as a poet. Books and covers, I guess.

He had more immediate problems on his mind. Like the man who was a twitch away from killing him now being a patient in his care. So the doc put him under sedation as soon as he regained his composure, and now he's good and strapped down in his clinic. Sunny and I intend to interrogate this prick as soon as he wakes up, and I can guarantee there won't be any med-x involved. I'll have to be very careful how I approach it. Don't want any secrets being spilled unnecessarily. If he mentions a single word about my so-called family I'll put a bullet in him and deal with the fallout after. Perhaps I can convince Sunny to let me question him alone first. I doubt it. Her friendliness from earlier has evaporated somewhat with the advent of someone very dangerous trying to get information on me. Can't say I blame her, but it was nice to feel accepted, even if it was just for a day or two. I'll try to win her back around later. Man's gotta eat though, and Trudy was nice enough to throw a Bighorner steak on for me when Sunny and I got back from the clinic. She and Cheyenne went hunting, an invitation noticeably absent. I believe I'll have to find another place to sleep tonight. It won't be with Trudy, anyway. Never had to dodge so many questions in my entire life.

Ventured out of Goodsprings a little bit after I was fed and watered. Found a skeleton in a fridge by the side of the road. Took the poor sucker's hat, fit a lot better than Mitchell's ragged cast-off. Doesn't seem like a smart move, hiding from death in a fridge, but then I got shot in the head. At least this guy tried _something. _Walked back to my grave and stared out at Vegas again. Made me so angry, thinking of how close I was to finishing the damn delivery. What did they even want with a novelty chip? It's not like it was valuable. Who could you sell it to? And they sure went to a lot of trouble. I'm not a man to be surprised easily. They must have known my route, somehow. It was no chance fucking meeting.

I need that chip back. They humiliated me. I almost went out with barely a whimper, trussed up and helpless. I couldn't have borne it. Imagine turning up at the pearly gates to meet your maker with a hole between your eyes and your hands lashed together. You'd be laughed off the astral plane. Even the auto-erotic asphyxiation crowd would have themselves a chuckle. That's why I'm going to get those bastards back. Every single one. Slick first, then the collaborating khans. I can still the one with the Mohawk in my mind's eye, looking as eager to see me die as a wet virgin on her wedding night. Then there's the black one, sneering at me like I was nothing but a piece of shit all ready to be scraped off. I can't wait to turn the tables. I think I'll beat the Mohawk with a shovel, like the one he dug my grave with. Watch his face turn to mush. That'll be good.

Still, thoughts of my ultimately delicious revenge must wait. There are pressing matters at hand to attend to first. Wouldn't be smart of me to set off straight away without finding out if the quizmaster strapped to a bed in Mitchell's house was working alone or was sent by someone else. If people are after me, I want to know who. I'm never walking into an ambush again. So I'll sit here, in this saloon, and wait for the sheriff to return. Even though I have a splitting headache. And my neck hurts. And I think I'm going to throw up again. Starting to regret ever fixing that radio. If I hear that annoying DJ one more- Wait a minute.

Just spoke with Trudy. Wasn't her radio. Wasn't a station she'd ever heard before. Knew there was something different. Damn hangover has me groggy as shit. Some asshole in the corner is the source of this musical abomination. Has a threadbare hood over his face, and is wearing some kind of green combat armor, but I can't make out the insignia. He seems unarmed. Goddamn it, why is everyone so fucking shifty these days? He has a Pip-Boy too, fucking Vaultie prick. Can't fool me, dickweed. That's what it's piping out of. No consideration for others, those asshats. That's what comes from growing up underground. Cave-dwelling troglodyte. I'm happy I don't get that shit on _my _Pip-Boy. Music's getting stuck in my head. And that damn DJ…

What the hell is a 'Three Dog' supposed to be?!

* * *

_Holotape discovered in Goodsprings Graveyard, with the remains of _**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

_Estimated date of recording October 22__nd__ 2281. 'DC' denotes Darron the Courier, 'SS' denotes Sunny Smiles, 'DM' denotes Dr. Mitchell and _**[INFORMATION REDACTED] **_denotes _**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "If I… didn't care…more than words… can say…"

SS- "Will you stop singing that fuckin' song?"

DC- "Don't you think I want to?! It's driving me insane!"

SS- "Where did you hear it? So I can set Cheyenne on the person who sang it?"

DC- "Some Vault jerk-off in the Saloon. Before I could tell him to shut it off he left. Too late for my ears, of course."

SS- "And mine."

DC- "You're the sheriff. Keep a closer eye on the people you let wander about your town."

SS- "Like zombie couriers?"

DC- "Just knock the goddamn door."

-Sound of three sharp knocks, a door opens and closes amidst the scurry of three sets of footsteps-

DM- "There you are. Finally. If you two wanna wake him up now, go right ahead. And don't be soft on him. Rehabilitation should be a painful process. I'll be in the Saloon, getting good and drunk, and thinking about the treatment my newest patient is receiving from my two new interns."

DC- "Didn't you tell me not to drink so much earlier?"

DM- "I'm a doctor. We say a lot of things."

SS- "Thanks Mitchell. We'll take excellent care of him, I promise."

-Soft footsteps slowly receding, a door opens and closes-

DC- "I call bad cop."

SS- "No way, cowboy. Like you said, this is my town. I'm bad cop."

DC- "The guy was looking for information about me. He nearly killed the man who saved my life. If anyone gets to slap him around a bit, it's yours truly!"

SS- "My jurisdiction, my rules. You don't like it, you can leave."

DC- "If you think you can stop me from shoving my hand into this guy's bullet wounds, you've got another thing coming, Ms. Smiles."

SS- "Ms. Smiles? No-one ever calls me that. You must be serious."

DC- "I am."

SS- "Fine, fine, you win. Shit, I always have to be the damn good-"

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

SS- "You're awake. How about that?"

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "That's how I'd feel in your position, too. Hello there. I'm the courier you were so curious about. But you already knew that. Since you're actively hunting me down, I'm going to assume you know certain things about me. Things that make me a nightmare for people like you. So do both myself and the good sheriff here a favour and spare us the tough guy, 'I ain't sayin' nothin'!" routine. Just tell me who sent you, and why. If you do that, maybe I'll let you live."

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

SS- "That was a mistake, buddy."

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "What's that? I can't hear you over the screaming."

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "Seriously, you'll have to speak up, there's a lot of your blood in my ear."

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "You… what? Why?"

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "You do know. Don't fucking lie to me. Tell me."

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

DC- "TELL ME!"

SS- "You're gonna kill him if you keep that up."

**[INFORMATION REDACTED]**

SS- "Told you."

-Several seconds of heavy breathing from DC, otherwise silence-

SS- "Why would your brother send someone to kill the man who saved your life?"

DC- "You've never met my brother. And I hope you never do."

SS- "Your family make me glad I'm an only child."

-The sound of a door crashing open-

DM- "SUNNY!"

SS- "Mitchell? What-"

DM- "Get out here quick! Powder Gangers!"

SS- "Shit. Darron, hope you're ready to do some shooting."

DC- "Always. But what's a Powder Ganger?"

SS- "Trouble. They're trouble."

* * *

_Addendum_

_Sir, I removed information regarding our agent as requested. This, along with the appearance of ignorance reflected in my second package, should be sufficient to deflect any inquisitions or awkward inquiries should the attached document or the second fall into the wrong hands. The courier service we have employed is completely trustworthy, however, so I do not expect this to be a problem._

_I have yet to identify the man who caused our operative to be compromised, but I am sure he was the man recording the conversation our man had with Doctor Mitchell. I am hopeful more information will come to light as I continue to collect the leavings of the Courier. I strongly doubt this was his only encounter with this 'demonic angel'._

_I am somewhat surprised at the Courier's insistence on remaining in Goodsprings for as long as he apparently did. It would seem his character is different from the original psychological report on him. I will continue to search for the truth behind this man. There is more to be learned, I can sense it. I believe we may have had less than half the full story._

_Expect another courier soon._


	5. Chapter 5

One of the things that always confused me in games is that for the story-line to work, the Player Character has to be alive to get to the end of the game. To take the example of Fallout, the PC must navigate a post-apocalyptic wasteland crawling with things like Deathclaws and Super Mutants, not to mention raiders and slavers. In my mind, something must set these men and women apart from the rest of the cast, and I have endeavored to explain why the Courier will be the special one in this story, and maybe why others were special in their respective stories.

I'd also like to take the opportunity to thank DN 506, Paul Benjamin Callahan and DeLyse for reviewing the previous chapter and everyone else who has this Journal on their follow and favourite lists. Thanks, you guys.

* * *

Journal of a Courier

_Journal pages found in the Jean Skydiving shack, east of Goodsprings._

_Confirmed date of writing October 23__rd__ 2281._

Day Five

Powder Gangers piss me off.

Fucking bottom-feeding convicts. They walk in like they own the town, shooting the place to pieces, calling out for Ringo, the only survivor of a caravan they attacked down the road. Fuck that. There were four of them. Sunny sped home to get Cheyenne and her hunting rifle, leaving me to stall them. Mitchell hid in his house and locked the door. I made sure my 10mm was on my hip and went to head them off. The rest of the town was deserted.

I stopped them just as they were about to smash into the general store. Called them a few choice names and they spun round, primitive glee on all their faces. I can understand why. This little prick in a Vault suit and wide-brimmed hat calling them a bunch of shower buddies- It must have seemed like all their birthdays had come at once. I don't think any of them even regarded me as a threat. That was stupid of them.

The first guy had a baton. I'm guessing he took it from a guard at the NCR Correctional Facility, which I have since learned is now in the Powder Ganger's control. He came charging at me, swinging it an overhead arc straight at my face. Aggressive tactic, completely what I expected of him. I jumped back, light on my feet as ever, drew my pistol, and that was when something very strange happened. My Pip-Boy took over.

Time seemed to slow down. The man attacking me was suspended in the air, face contorted in Psycho-assisted rage. In front of my eyes, there were numerical percentages floating by his body parts, indicating the chance I had to hit him in that particular body part. It was like I had become a robot. I panicked at this sudden disorientation, yet before I knew it he lay at my feet, his head blown to smithereens. His partners swarmed me, but I stood there frozen, unable to process what had happened. It was a rush incomparable to any drug, and I've tried them all. My whole body felt jarred from the inside out, rendering me practically useless. Blood pounded in my ears and my vision blurred. Thankfully, I was no longer alone.

Sunny's rifle rang in the night air, and another Powder ganger fell dead from a .308 to the heart. A third was being savaged by Cheyenne, who materialized as if from nowhere. But the fourth slammed his baseball bat into my ribs and skull, and I was woken from my displaced reverie by the cold muzzle of a 9mm being held to my temple. The Powder Ganger grabbed me by the neck and used me as a human shield, backing into the small alley between the Prospector and Chet's store. Cheyenne followed slowly, blood dripping from her teeth and growling deeply, looking every inch the most terrifying beast ever spawned into existence. Sunny crept forward as well, rifle firmly aimed at the criminal's head. I was aware of them vocalising, but all sound was distorted. I felt bile rise in my throat but it was forced back down by the barrier of the thug's forearm on my Adam's apple. Sunny's face was, despite the situation, calm and composed, and in a strange moment of clarity I knew my hunch about her military background was right. Not that it made much difference. I thought I was going to die. For real, this time.

Until the pressure around my throat lifted and I fell to the ground, struggling to breathe. A high-pitched scream came wailing up the alley from behind me. Cheyenne and Sunny sprang into action and whipped past, but they needn't have bothered. The Powder Ganger was already dead.

Spluttering and holding my shattered mid-section, I groaned my way to my feet and stared at my three saviours.

Sunny and Cheyenne had their backs to me, ostensibly putting me out of harm's way. They were both facing the green combat armor-wearing man with the threadbare hood, who had so irritatingly introduced that atrocious song into my head. I hadn't noticed how tall he was. Though we stood a few feet apart I could tell he had at least five or six inches on me. The Powder Ganger was sprawled at his feet, headless, his arm hacked off at the shoulder. The weapon this stranger had used to perform this execution was held loosely in his right hand. It was a sword that shimmered strangely, and it took a few beats before I realised with a jolt that electricity was flowing through the well-tended metal. He ignored the sheriff and the dog and looked straight at me, lowering his hood as he did so. Even in the dimness of the Mojave night, his features left their mark.

The face that greeted my wounded eyes was not what I expected. The man looked barely out of his teens, with a clean, fresh visage and bright blue eyes that seemed to actually illuminate the air in front of him. Long, shaggy brown hair covered most of his forehead and ears, and crept down to his shoulders. The only blemish of any kind was an old, white scar at the top of his thin lips which were set in a severe, humourless line. His gaze pinned me where I stood, and I knew that before me was a man who numbered among the most dangerous I had ever run across. The remains of the Powder Ganger had been almost surgically sliced to pieces, there was no frenzied hack and slash at play with this one. Reflexively I raised my 10mm, which had somehow remained clutched in my sweaty palm throughout my paralysis. This action brought an upward curling of the mouth, and it was this obvious and clear arrogance that finally brought me back to my senses.

"What's so fucking funny?" I asked him, politely.

He stared at me for another few seconds. Sunny's knuckles were turning white. And then in an accent utterly alien to my well travelled ears, he spoke. Whatever I expected, it wasn't this.

"What happened there? You let one of those convict dipshits almost kill you! You can't even use VATS properly. I don't know why I even bothered saving your ass. Cole must be off his face on Jet or some shit, there's no way he could have been talking about you. You're fucking useless."

Rage flared in me, obliterating pain and reason in a white rush. I flipped my gun, held it by the barrel, and charged him. I heard Sunny shout and Cheyenne bark, but paid no heed. The cocky shit didn't even move until my pistol whip was inches away from breaking his jaw, and then my world turned upside down and I was on the ground again, mouth full of dust and sand, staring up at his hateful face. He drew a serrated knife from some sort of wrist-holster and held it to my throat. The smug bastard looked so pleased with himself, it was an utter pleasure when my 10mm fell from the sky and straight into my grateful left hand. Before he could blink it was pointed between those pretty-boy eyes, primed to obliterate him from the world.

"You can wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, movie star. Gun beats knife any day of the week."

He growled, deeper than Cheyenne had. It was my turn to split my features with a smile. The way his scornful look slid off his face to be replaced by one of pure anger was fucking beautiful.

"You were lucky, old man. That was one-in-a-million chance."

"Rather be lucky than dead, boy. I took two bullets to the head this week and that didn't kill me, so I doubt some punk merc kid will finish the job. Now get that toothpick away from my neck or Trudy's wall will be getting a new coat of red paint."

"You try it and I'll cut your fucking head off."

Sunny intervened at this point. I had almost forgotten she was there. "Yeah, I wouldn't. I've got you clean in my sights, and Cheyenne will run you down if you try and skedaddle. Stand up real slow, and drop that pretty-looking sword while you're at it."

"I saved this piece of crap. That Powder Ganger would have killed him. Then he runs at me. I just defended myself. You should be thanking me, sheriff."

"I make it a point not to let mysterious men with deadly weapons wander around town killing who they like. I had the situation in hand."

The kid snorted to show what he thought of that. It was extraordinary how little he seemed to blink. But then, completely against my expectations, the knife slipped back into it's holster and he jumped to his feet, hands in the air. I scrambled to my feet markedly less gracefully, but with the upper hand.

Sunny seemed relieved, but retained her business-like demeanor. "Alright, that's better. Now, you're gonna answer a few questions for me. Who are you? Where did you come from? And who are you working for?"

The way he crossed his arms and looked down on us with disdain was disconcerting, but he answered nonetheless.

"My name is Aidan McIntyre, though some call me the Lone Wanderer. I come from what remains of America's capital city, Washington D.C. Or as it's known now, the Capital Wasteland. I am a paladin of the East Coast Brotherhood of Steel, Second Ranger-in-chief of Reilly's Rangers, and First Lieutenant of the Pitt. And I'm done answering your questions, sheriff. But you, Courier. Take a closer look at your Pip-Boy. The VATS section. Learn how to use it." He stared at me for a moment. His expression was difficult to read.

"Maybe Cole wasn't so off-target after all. You've known her for a couple of days and she was ready to kill for you. We could use people who inspire loyalty like that. But more importantly, you're the luckiest asshole I've ever met. If that luck doesn't run out on you, I'll be back. "

And then, before either Sunny or I could reply to that, this 'Lone Wanderer' tapped his Pip-Boy, and simply disappeared.

Now what the fuck am I supposed to make of all that?

"Where the hell did he go?! Fuckin' stealth boys… Ah, shit. What a mess. Four dead Powder Gangers and a sacked caravan. Come on, Darron. We have to find this Ringo fella." Sunny stalked off, perhaps disappointed that this man had eluded her inimitable style of wasteland justice.

Ringo was hiding in the old gas station. He was holding up well for someone who just watched his companions get blown to pieces with dynamite. Couldn't thank us enough. Sunny told him to hold up for as long as he needed before sending off to Mitchell to get a once over. When we were done, Sunny, Cheyenne and I stood on the hill looking down on the little town. Sunny looked like she wanted to say something. I had a feeling what it might be. Credit to Sunny, she came out with it straight.

"You have to leave. Up until last week the most trouble this town saw was the odd gecko attack, but since you came along we've had those khans and that rattlesnake who pulls their strings trashing our bar, your brother sends an assassin after you and he nearly kills our town doctor, another creep appears out of thin air and saves Mitchell for no reason and then vanishes again, and now we've got this Lone Wanderer fella lurkin' about, and by all accounts he's mighty interested in you. And to top it off, those chain gang butt-buddies are going to hit us like a ton of bricks now. I ain't blamin' you, but I think it's best for Goodsprings if you move on."

And there it was. I can't tell you how many times I've heard some variation of that sentence. Something always happens, and they make me get out. Trouble follows me like a bad smell, and no matter how far I walk I can't seem to be rid of the stench. Now I was planning on leaving of my own volition, but there's a big difference between leaving because you want to and leaving with a threat at your back. But I smiled, patted her shoulder, told her _of course _I understood, and walked straight out of Goodsprings. I didn't look back once.

Didn't go far. I'm in a little shack just east of it, called Jean Skydiving. Found some good loot in a couple of lockers, with rusted off locks. Another fella walked in and we had ourselves a few seconds of a Mexican stand-off, but it turns out he thought I was a Powder Ganger and was about to try and kill me. Tried to tell me he was a merchant. Okay buddy, whatever makes you happy. We decided to share until the morning. I'm pretty sure once I fall asleep he's going to shoot me.

Sitting down was the first chance I got to make sense of everything that's been happening. The Lone Wanderer, my fucking brother's assassin and the man who saved Mitchell's life. So many variables floating around in my head. But then, it's not a new situation. Just some new players. Ever since the day I walked out the front door I've had people following me, looking for me, and trying to kill me. It's why I walk around the way I do, why I hide my real name. My family will never let me settle. Stupid of me to forget that. I won't do it again.

My mind drifted to my Pip-Boy and what had happened with that Powder Ganger. I took the Lone Wanderer's advice and had a closer look at my little wrist attachment. Didn't take long to find the VATS section.

According to the Pip-Boy, VATS stands for the Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System. When activated, it increases the battle performance of the user's body to it's peak levels for short, controlled bursts of near invincibility. Apparently the user will fire faster, swing harder, be more accurate and even shrug off 'moderate' damage while the system is active. Basically, it turns the user into a fighting machine, for a few precious seconds. The downside is that the human body can only operate at 100% capacity for a very limited window before the body has to recover. The Pip-Boy tracks this constant recovery with the use of AP, or Action Points. Mine are currently sitting at 85/85. The number of Action Points directly correlates to the Agility portion of the SPECIAL acronym.

I'm staggered Mitchell had tech like this. I know for a fact this wasn't a feature on the vanilla Pip-Boys, because if it was the Vaulties would have taken over the wastes without breaking a sweat. In the hands of a special forces operative, like a Ranger or a Brotherhood Paladin, this thing would be a weapon of mass destruction. It's obvious the Lone Wanderer had one as well, no-one could be that fast naturally.

This thing on my arm is beyond price. If the true nature of it becomes obvious to certain people- namely, my dear brother- then I'm going to hunted like a goddamn gecko. It's their funeral. I'm going to dedicate myself to becoming one with this amazing piece of technology. And I'm going to use it get my Chip back.

But first, I need to fucking sleep.

If the 'merchant' doesn't kill me, I'll write some more when I wake up.

* * *

_Holotape found in the possessions of Lieutenant Mark Hayes, NCR._

_Confirmed date of recording October 23__rd__ 2281._

I woke up with my bunk-buddy about to slam a full 10mm magazine through my eye. Retard didn't know about VATS.

This time I was slightly more ready for the unbelievable rush, but it still knocked me for six. Faster than the eye could blink my right hand shot forward and pushed his sub-machine gun into his own face. The fear on his face was delectable, and I had time to whisper one word before I pulled the trigger on him.

Sleepytime.

Once I got over what I have decided to call the VATS sickness, I wiped the blood off and set about taking whatever valuables he had, and examined the gun that saved my life. Sleek, black, 10mm sub-machine lead-spitter with a silencer. Great looking piece of kit, perfect for quiet kills. I'm going to have to hunt for even more 10mm ammo, seeing as I can hardly trade with Chet anymore, but that sneaky bastard trying to kill me was a godsend. It came in very handy in Primm.

Primm has been invaded by Powder Gangers, and NCR aren't doing shit about it. Found myself talking to a Lieutenant Hayes, who is in charge of an NCR garrison stationed there. Exactly what they are doing is beyond me. So I took myself into Primm proper, to see what I could find.

I remembered the layout from my trip through to collect the Platinum Chip, but this time I was a little more stealthy. I had to be, because the place was crawling with Powder Gangers. Just kept remembering the ones who attacked Goodsprings, and felt a great anger towards these marauding bastards. But I could do nothing. My weaponry would barely scratch the surface, even with Sleepytime. Primm was boiling like a stirred ant-hill, and I wasn't going to be the kid with the magnifying glass. However, I needed to know if there was anything worth salvaging in the town, namely Johnson Nash. I needed to know about my delivery and that Chip.

So I used my intelligence.

It was easy, really. I watched for a few hours to try and memorize their patrols, but eventually realized that there were no patrols. Sloppy. No organization at all. Should have expected that. Calling them stupid and I'm the idiot. Regardless, I decided to create an opening. Had a perfect angle from my recon spot in a ruined building beside Mojave Express. Sleepytime emptied half a magazine so fast and silently it brought a tear to my eye.

The old rollercoaster had been teetering dangerously for a while, that much was clear. All it needed was the right application of force, which I was more than happy to apply. The noise it made was indescribable, but achieved the desired effect. The Powder Gangers flocked like Bloatflies to a corpse, and I was able to slip into the Mojave Express while the slack-jawed morons scratched their heads.

Surprise surprise, Johnson Nash was nowhere to be seen. Probably dead, but until I know for sure I can't leave Primm the way it is. Looked around his house, found a couple of magazines and some tasty looking casseroles which I chowed down. Not bad. No luck on any delivery orders or hints of what was going on with the Platinum Chip, but the journey was not entirely fruitless.

There was an eyebot laid out on the counter. You see them floating about every now and then and the little suckers have quite the antennae, as well as a wicked laser. The poor guy was pretty messed up, but luckily the two magazines lying by Johnson Nash's bed were Programmer's Digest and Fixin' Things, so after a quick leaf through I re-crossed a few wires and 'ED-E' jerked to life. So now I have a little companion floating after me. The first thing ED-E did was connect with my Pip-Boy and now his amazing threat detection is available to me, simply by looking down at my arm. The best way I can describe it is like sonar. ED-E sends out waves of low-level electronic pulses to get a reading of the surrounding area, the data comes back to him and I find out what's waiting for me around the corner or over the hill. The only part I don't understand is that somehow my Pip-Boy can differentiate between hostile threats and passive people or animals. My mind is continuing to be blown by this Pip-Boy.

So it was very easy for me to leave town, seeing as I can now avoid any undesirables thanks to ED-E. Went back to speak to Hayes to try and convince him to attack the town. As expected, got a no. Was at a loss on what to do, and ED-E didn't seem to have any ideas either. But then the light bulb went off. I had to appeal to the highest authority these men would listen to.

I had to go to the prison.

* * *

_Addendum_

_Sir, the information in this package is regrettably true._

_The Lone Wanderer is active in the Mojave, and he is interested in the Courier._


	6. Chapter 6

I'd like to first apologize for the delay with this chapter. But it took a long time for me to get it just right, especially the dialogue scenes. I'm happy enough with the final product, but as always I'm open to criticism. The length of Chapter 6 was also necessary. I don't like overly long chapters, but there was a lot of stuff to get through.

I'd like to thank DeLyse for their review, and everyone else for following and favouriting. You all deserve a short massage.

* * *

Journal of a Courier

_Journal pages found in the warden's office of the NCRCF. _

_Confirmed date of writing October 24__th__ 2281._

Day Six

I didn't think sneaking into the NCRCF was an option, so I bedded down in the rubble of one of the buildings on NCR's side of Primm and spent the night organizing my inventory. I had lots of stuff ready to sell on but no-one to sell it to. Asked around the soldiers if they knew of any nearby merchants but all I got were hostile stares and one word answers. You'd have thought they'd be happy having someone new to talk to, but no. Grumpy sons of bitches. Not my fault you're in the middle of the desert with your thumbs up your asses. Should have draft-dodged like me.

Slept surprisingly well. ED-E hung around beeping in a way that was almost soothing, and it wasn't long before I was out like a light.

I woke up with the rising sun, and after using a few bottles of water to give myself a bit of a wash I changed from the Vault Suit to the Leather Armor and went on my way.

This particular stretch of I-15 was dead, same as it had been the previous times I walked up and down it. The wasteland seemed to be holding it's breath, the only sound the occasional staccato of automatic gunfire that seemed to be coming from the east. The silence unnerved me a little bit, so I switched the radio on and listened to the news broadcasts from Mr. New Vegas. I tuned in right in the middle of some bitch warbling about a guy named Johnny, but persevered to get a reading of the Mojave's pulse.

According to the Mr. New Vegas, the NCR are being pressed hard by the Legion all over the place. Numerous mentions of Camp Forlorn Hope and Bitter Springs. Cheerful names, those. If the DJ is to be believed the Mojave is in a serious state of turmoil. Probably a bad time for launching a revenge mission but you have to play the cards you're dealt.

Ran into trouble just up from Jean Skydiving. One of those pre-war trailers just sitting in the middle of the road, with three Powder Gangers milling around it. Dropped down off the road and tried to creep past, until I heard the whimper. It sounded female. Memories came flooding back, which I tried to push down as quickly as they surfaced. I failed. Cursing myself for even giving a shit, I got as close as I could from the side of the road and poked my head over the edge.

The Powder Gangers were to my right. They had their backs to me, looking up I-15 and were talking about something which I couldn't quite catch. Straight ahead, inside the rusted and burned out trailer, was a thin, pale foot. It shifted a little, and then stilled.

I ducked back down again and checked to see if I had a full clip for Sleepytime. I did, but only two spare after I emptied my current one. If I was quick enough I could take them out before any of them realised what had happened. I had to give VATS a proper field test eventually anyway, and right then seemed as good a time as any. I took a deep breath, slid onto the blasted and pockmarked remains of the highway and crept close. It would have been the perfect stealth attack. ED-E had other ideas, apparently. Just as I prepared to strike, music blared from the little fucker and almost made me shit myself.

The Powder Gangers swivelled round just in time for ED-E to vaporize the foremost, a white guy wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a bandoleer. I raised Sleepytime and started firing, forgetting VATS completely in the rush and terror of an unexpected fight. The battle however, was short-lived. Because as soon as I ducked into the trailer for cover, I was smashed in the side of the face with a blunt object and I was knocked unconscious. The last thing I remember was a blurry shape leaping over my prone body.

I woke up with, unsurprisingly, a splitting headache. Blearily, I looked around, dimly relieved that I was not bound or gagged and that unbelievably, my glasses remained undamaged and on my face. My armor was gone, replaced by rotted rags that could barely pass for clothing, but it was better than being naked. My surroundings, however, did little to reassure me.

I was in a cell. And I was not alone.

In the bottom bunk of the beds opposite me, a man was lying down, his dark, grime-encrusted face occasionally illuminated by the cigarette he was smoking. As I stirred, he noticed my sluggish movement from the corner of his eyes and they narrowed, making them seem even more squinted than they were naturally. He swung his legs off the bed and strode towards me, and I realised my cell-mate must have been late into his forties or even early into his fifties. Through the light cloth of the blue convict apparel he sported I could see he was solidly built for a man of that age, but he was of equal height with my small frame. In my delicate health I would pose a hardened criminal little threat, and so I screwed my eyes shut, waiting for the beating. I'd been in this situation before, and hoped it would be over quickly.

The beating never came.

* * *

_Holotape found in the warden's office of the NCRCF._

_Confirmed date of recording October 24__th__ 2281. 'DC' denotes Darron the Courier. 'GC' denotes Gerry the convict._

GC- "What the fuck are you doin'?"

DC- "Look, if you're gonna beat the shit out of me I don't want to have to look into your eyes while you're doing it. Now can you just get it over with?"

GC- "Jeez. You're kind of a pussy, ain'tcha?"

DC- "Wonderful. It would be my luck to get the sick bastard that wants me to fight back. In case you haven't noticed buddy, I've got a lump the size of a Brahmin testicle growing under my eye after I got clocked in the head. I wouldn't put up much of a fight. So sorry to ruin your fun."

GC- "You deserve a fuckin' beatin' with the way you're talkin'. You keep that shit up in here you're gonna end up somebody's bitch. I came over to offer you a smoke, idiot. Here."

DC- "You… You aren't gonna beat the crap out of me?"

GC- "I'm in two minds about it now, asshole. You'll make my mind up for me if you don't keep that whimpering bull to a bare fuckin' minimum. Here's a match. If it doesn't light, tough shit, I ain't got any more to spare."

-The sound of footsteps, followed by the groan of rusty bedsprings. The sound of a match striking three times, followed by raucous coughing-

DC- "Whoa. Sorry about that. Been a while since I smoked."

GC- "No shit."

-Several minutes of relative silence follow-

DC- "Thanks for not knocking me around. I've been getting fucked up a lot recently. Didn't want to make a habit of it."

GC- "Don't mention it."

DC- "Right. Name's Darron. I'm a courier."

GC- "Gerry. With a G. I'm here at the pleasure of President Kimball. "

DC- "So… This is NCRCF, then. Bitch saved me the walk, at least."

GC- "Heard about that. Stupid whore thought you were coming to shoot her up. According to Harris, you and that robot were clearing house until she cracked you one."

DC- "Harris?"

GC- "Last man standing of the raid on Crimson Caravan. Three of those spastics bought it in Goodsprings, and you and that robot killed two more at the crossroads. Once you got knocked out and Harris stopped crapping his pants he realised what had happened and dragged you all the way back here. The girl booked it out of there. Don't know what happened to your robot."

DC- "It's ED-E's fault I'm even in here. Pile of bolts started blasting some shitty battle music just as I was about to kill those three with… Ah, fuck. They took Sleepytime, didn't they?"

GC- "That black devil of a submachine gun? Yeah, Harris has it."

DC- "Suppose that's the least of my problems."

GC- "You said it, kid. What were you even interferin' for anyway?"

DC- "The girl needed help. I wasn't going to leave her there to get raped and tortured. You say she got away. I can think of worse ways of dying, saving someone from a death like that."

GC- "A bleedin' heart, huh? Don't see many of you around anymore. There's a reason for that. You stick your do-gooder noses in where they don't belong and eventually someone like me cuts 'em off. Should take a leaf outta my book, kid. Shoot first, ask questions later."

DC- "That tactic has worked out well for you, I see."

GC- "… You're a fuckin' smartass, you know that?"

DC- "What did you do to end up incarcerated here anyway?"

GC- "You like your fancy words, don't ya?"

DC- "And you like dodging questions."

GC- "Don't burden yourself with the secrets of scary people, kid. Never ask a convict what he's in for. It's liable to get you fucked up."

DC- "I've been told. I was just curious. You seem to know quite a lot about me and the goings on around here, Gerry with a G."

GC- "Heh. You could say that."

DC- "And yet… you're in here. A cell. With me. From the look of you, this isn't your first day in here, either."

GC- "What's ya point?"

DC- "My point is how do you know so much and why are you imprisoned in a prison that's had a break-out?"

GC- "Why the fuck should I tell you?"

DC- "Because the alternative is sitting here in silence. I'm willing to bet you've had more than enough of solitary, if you're anything like me."

GC- "You've done solitary?"

DC- "Yeah. Yeah I have. I've felt the walls start to close in. I've felt the rats nibble at your toes and the darkness envelop your eyes until the thought of seeing the sun again is enough to drive you to tears of desperation. I've felt the deep, primal longing that only yearns for some human contact, even if it's just a shithead guard throwing you a haunch of meat that you wouldn't feed to a rabid dog."

-Several seconds of silence-

GC- "When Cooke came up with the idea of hoarding the dynamite for the riot, I kept quiet. Didn't want any part of it. Thought they were on a hiding to nothin'. Cooke didn't like that. Neither did Eddie, or Scrambler, or Cobb, or Chavez. But they didn't say shit, 'cuz they knew I'd fuck 'em up if they tried anything. But that prick who ended up running those boys down in Primm… Lennard was a different story. All those other faggots, those shower-buddies, they were afraid of him more than they were afraid of me. "

DC- "Why?"

GC- "He's a bad guy. In here, there's a lot of bad guys, but that sick fuck… Apparently, he got pinched by NCR in Vegas. Ever been?"

DC- "Not yet. I hear good things, though. A trader in Goodsprings told me to check out Gomorrah."

GC- "Hah! Good things. That's fuckin' rich. Well, if you ever get there, you'll see. Just like that guy saw when he ended up in a bedroom of that rattlesnake nest with Lennard. One of the other guests complained about the screaming. Casino security couldn't break the door down, so the NCR MP's got called in. Lennard killed 'em all with just a switchblade. Only reason the next wave of MP's caught him was that he hung around to finish eating the tourist."

DC- "… And they didn't kill him? They threw a cannibal maniac like that in general population?"

GC- "MP's on The Strip don't carry guns, kid. Just fuckin' cattle prods. The guy who runs Vegas doesn't like crimson gettin' spilled in his playground."

DC- "Looks like I'll be giving this 'Gomorrah' a wide berth."

GC- "First sensible thing I've heard from you so far. So when the riot goes off in here, the explosions and the far-off sounds of those scabs screaming and cryin' for their fuckin' momma's, I stayed in here. Had a smoke. The place went real quiet, then. Quiet as a goddamn graveyard. I was startin' to think they'd all killed each other, and I was gonna get left in here to starve to death like a fuckin' retard. No such luck. Lennard stalks in with that look in his eye, that psycho glare. Eddie was with him, the big boss in here. So was Scrambler, his number two. He's another total fuckin' headcase, lemme tell ya."

DC- "What happened?"

GC- "Lennard laid down the law, is what happened. He told me that seein' as I hadn't helped them in their breakout, they weren't gonna help me out of this piss-covered cell. And then he took his posse down to Primm, and that's where he's stayed. At least, that's what I've heard."

DC- "I'm guessing Lennard doesn't take his orders from this Eddie person, does he?"

GC- "Are you shittin' me? Eddie likes to act tough, but if he didn't have that murderin' bastard Scrambler lurking in his midget shadow and the fact he was pally with Cooke fresh in everyone's minds, he'd be passed around like one of Caesar's new recruits."

DC- "So I came up here for nothing. Fuck."

GC- "What are you talkin' about?"

DC- "I was planning on coming here anyway. Just not quite in this manner."

GC- "Why the fuck would anyone wanna end up in here… volun-fuckin'-tarily?"

DC- "I need to talk to a man in Primm. But as you know, your dear friends are squatting in the town and I can't get near the casino or hotel to see if any of the remaining townsfolk are holed up and surviving. So I got the idea to walk up here and see if I could do a couple of favours for whoever's in charge in exchange for calling off the Powder Gangers in Primm."

GC- "Kid, that's just about the stupidest fuckin' plan I've ever heard. You're lucky that bitch beat the shit outta you, because your head woulda got popped by one of the snipers if your ass had got within a hundred feet of this hell-hole."

DC- "Yeah, the more I examine it the less clever it seems."

GC- "When I heard Harris carted you up here I really didn't think it was because you basically put yourself in this position. I just thought you were an unlucky scrub."

DC- "And just how did you hear? Harris doesn't seem the type to tell you, if what you've said of him is anything to go by."

GC- "There's a fella in here who isn't as much of a cruel bastard as the rest of the cunts. Name's Meyers. Used to be sheriff of a little piss-ant town, believe it or not, 'til one day NCR rolled up to his humble abode. They didn't like his particular flavour of justice, and the little town had a well full of fresh fuckin' water, so they did what NCR always do and tossed him in here after dragging him all the way from out West and annexing his home. In here, with the types of people he'd been locking up most of his life. Ever since the riot, he's the only guy who ever comes in to do anything other than scream abuse at me. Without him, I'd probably have went bat-shit by now. Now I've got you, although probably not for long."

DC- "What makes you say that?"

GC- "You think Harris dragged your sorry ass from the crossroads just to let you rot away in here? They want you for something. I don't know what, so don't ask. But trust me on this one- these guys don't leave people alive without a reason. Prolly gonna stake you out for the buzzards. Whatever they're gonna do, I'd bet on it hurtin'."

DC- "That sounds like it could be unpleasant."

GC- "The only kind of pleasant, these days."

DC- "Well then. You'd better fill me in on the defences around here."

GC- "Defences? What fuckin' defences?"

DC- "Well, you mentioned snipers. I'm assuming there's some semblance of security inside as well, to stop you all killing each other. Not to mention the explosive ordnance that must be hidden around the prison, ready to blow anyone who attacks to bloody chunks. I'll need to know your best estimate on how many of you there are in here, and how many are usually out raiding, and whether you expect them to come back. I'll need to know how well armed everyone is, and if they can even shoot straight without pumping themselves full of Steady and Psycho first. To boil it down for you, Gerry, I want to know how easy it is going to be for me to break out of this shit-smelling prison… after I get my gun back, obviously."

-Several seconds of silence-

GC- "You're serious?"

DC- "Damn fucking right. I'm sick of being a victim. It's about time I started fighting back."

GC- "Well that's great. Just fuckin' dandy. Good for you. Let me know how that works out."

DC- "Thanks for the support."

GC- "Well excuse me for droppin' a reality check on you kid, but let's examine the facts here. For a start, you can't even get outta this cell. If you somehow did, you don't know the layout of the place, so chances are high of you creeping straight into a hungry, armed and bored son of a bitch who will eat you up and spit you out and smile while he does it. But lets say you somehow unlock that door and sneak past every single scumbag and get out into the desert. Well, good luck evading the watchtower sharpshooters. But again, let's say Lady Luck's firmly on your side and the .308's ping harmlessly around your feet as you book it as far away as you can. You think these guys are gonna let you stroll off, hands in your pockets, whistling a fuckin' tune?! They'll be out after you like hounds on a scent. Then what are you gonna do? You got no weapons, kid. You even try acting this fantasy out and you're dead. Real fuckin' dead."

DC- "Well. Those are all very valid points. Allow me to present my rebuttal."

-The Pip-Boy beeps loudly as the Courier taps buttons-

GC- "What- What the fuck?"

DC- "Now Gerry, tell me… how are you with a 20 gauge? I'd hate to break out of here all by lonesome."

GC- "Where did you get that thing? That… that Pip-Boy?"

DC- "Oh, you know. Around."

GC- "Tell me. Did you take if from somebody?"

DC- "As a matter of fact, no. It was a gift."

GC- "You can do that thing, can't you? Whaddyacallit… VATS?"

DC- "How do you know about VATS?"

GC- "You ain't the first I've seen with one of those special Pip-Boys."

DC- "Is that right? Funny, I'm not the first one I've seen either."

GC- "What kinda weapons you got apart from that shotgun?"

DC- "10mm pistol, this machete and my old combat knife. Got a couple of grenades here as well. And obviously a screwdriver and some bobby pins to get us out of our lovely suite."

GC- "Well I'll be. This changes things. How good are you with VATS?"

DC- "I'm not an expert by any means. Only used it a couple of times."

GC- "You still throwin' up?"

DC- "I- Yeah, I am. How did you-"

GC- "Shit. You think you could hold it together? If we're quick and quiet we'll only have to take down around four or five, but if you're lying on the ground blowin' chunks we ain't gonna get very far."

DC- "I can do it. I'll take the 10mm until I get Sleepytime back. I'm not leaving here without it."

GC- "What about the up-close stuff? You squeamish? You gonna be okay slinking up behind some guy with his back turned and drawing that serrated edge across his throat, spraying his blood all over the place? Because if we go in guns blazin' they'll hear."

DC- "As long as you aren't asking me to have a fencing match with anyone, I'll try. Rather just blow their brains out. Especially that fucker Harris."

GC- "Lucky for you Harris usually bums around in the entrance hall with Dawes and Meyers. Fuck, Meyers! He could help us! He's got one of those Power Fist things and he's been itchin' to cave Harris' head in ever since the break-out."

DC- "You think he'd be up for it?"

GC- "Hell yeah. We just gotta wait for him to come through here-"

DC- "I'm not hanging around to be a Powder Ganger's plaything. I could be dead before then."

GC- "We try this without him we'll probably be dead anyway."

DC- "Then we're in a bit of a pickle, aren't-"

-The sound of an enormous explosion, the Courier and Gerry shouting something incomprehensible, dim, semi-automatic gunfire-

DC- "Holy… What the fuck was that?"

-Distant shouting, growing closer-

GC- "Kid, forget what I said. Open that fuckin' door. Let's get outta here."

* * *

_Journal pages found in the warden's office of the NCRCF._

_Confirmed date of writing October 24__th__ 2281._

The cell door opened on the first try.

We were out into the yard in seconds, me in front, 10mm in my right hand and combat knife in my left, freshly clad in my Vault Suit. Gerry was hot on my heels, the fire of war in his eyes and the shotgun in his hands. Smoke billowed over the compound, but visibility cleared enough for Gerry and I to make sense of the scene.

NCR soldiers were pouring through breaches in the wire fence, which had been blown to smithereens in three different places. The Powder Gangers were falling back to the large administration building, firing small arms and tossing dynamite as they went. A dark skinned man went haring past me, dressed in the blue prisoners outfit. I was taking aim when Gerry blasted him with the 20 gauge. Bits of him went flying through the air. Gerry laughed, a wild, frightening sound. Then he grabbed my collar and dragged me towards the visitors centre, cackling as he went.

He booted the door open, smashing the pitiful lock in the process. Bullets zipped and whined past our heads as we ducked in. Whether they were from Powder Gangers or NCR soldiers, I have no idea.

Gerry jogged down the narrow hallway and turned the corner with his shotgun held ready at the shoulder. I back-pedalled after him, eyes fixed on the door, ready to shoot anyone who tried to follow us. I heard Gerry curse, and I swivelled to face five men, all with weapons in their hands.

I recognised the slimeball Harris immediately, mostly because he had the audacity to point _my own fucking gun_ at me. He stood in the middle, with two hard-looking men on either side of him and another manning the exit. Gerry and I were facing, as well as Sleepytime, four 9mm Submachine Guns and a Power Fist. Even with VATS, I didn't like our chances. Gerry, however, was still smiling like it was his birthday. The reason why became clear when the Power Fist-wielder stepped away from the exit, walked calmly up behind Harris and ripped his head clean off of his shoulders with the pneumatic hand. The other four gormless bastards turned to gape at the corpse, which was spraying blood everywhere, leaving Gerry and I to mop up. Gerry's buckshot took the two on the left, while I fired up VATS and added two more bodies to my conscience.

Gerry hauled me roughly off the ground, which was now swimming in blood and vomit and fragmented remnants of arms, legs and heads. He muttered something I was unable to decipher because of the blood pounding in my ears and pressed Sleepytime into my hands, which I drunkenly slammed a full clip into. Meyers was busy arming himself and Gerry from the remains of Harris and his friends while I leaned heavily against the counter, trying to regain my composure. By the time my hearing was restored, which took a matter of seconds in reality but seemed an eternity to my clouded perception, the two men were making for the exit and calling for me to "hurry the fuck up."

But then the door blew open and tan uniform after tan uniform swarmed through, their barked orders and shouted threats reverberating horribly in my head. I understood what they wanted from unpleasant memory, though, so I dematerialized Sleepytime into my Pip-Boy before sinking to my knees in a gesture of surrender, the smell of the gore and bodily fluids rushing up into my nose as I did so. Gerry and Meyers followed suit, even though I could see the hatred in Meyer's eyes and the madness in Gerry's.

Minutes later, the three of us were kneeling in the courtyard, surrounded by death and NCR soldiers. We were the only inhabitants of the prison to give ourselves up. The three of us knew enough about NCR to stop us from asking questions, so we sat there silently and waited.

You see, NCR like to pass themselves off as law bringers, avatars of Justice. Anyone who has ever seen the inside of an NCR prison knows the truth of that. Anyone who has ever seen a meeting of an NCR congressman and a wealthy brahmin baron knows the truth of that. I've seen both, and much more besides. Lives and land haggled over at dinner, money passing from hand to manicured hand in Shady Sands as if it were an open air market.

I gathered that Eddie and a large portion of the prisoners had managed to get inside the administration building and were resisting any NCR entry fiercely. I know what happens to a commanding officer who loses too many of the men under his command, and so I was unsurprised when the man in charge of this little skirmish, Sergeant Lee, approached the three of us with a look remarkably less hostile than those the men under him were shooting us. He was of medium height, with a hairline similar to Doctor Mitchell's, though he was far younger.

He asked us our names and crimes. Meyers was well known in NCR by name, apparently. Gerry simply said "I killed a soldier. Self-defence, but you don't care." Lee's eyes narrowed at that, but he didn't add anything. Then he came to me. I barely started speaking when he stopped me. "You're the Courier?" he asked. I nodded, dreading my brother's influence. I was pleasantly surprised. Lee smiled and gestured behind him. "Then this is yours."

ED-E came floating my line of sight and my shock was matched only by my confusion. Lee explained the situation to me, grinning all the while.

After I was attacked, ED-E had flown all the way back down to Primm and into the tent of Lieutenant Hayes. Then he had played a recording of the conversation that Harris and the other convicts had been having at the trailer, which I had been unable to hear. ED-E had no such problems with his advanced recording equipment courtesy of the Enclave. They had been talking about a planned attack on Camp McCarran which was being spearheaded by Eddie and this Cooke person who was the brains behind the whole breakout. This was the final straw for Lieutenant Hayes, who had been itching to attack the prison but had been restrained by the situation in Primm. ED-E's little broadcast had convinced him. He had moved most of the garrison north to attack the prison and took the remainder of the forces south to Mojave Outpost. Primm had been abandoned to the Powder Gangers.

"Clever robot you've got there. Saved a lot of NCR lives. We ought to get one of those for every squad out fighting those Legion fucks. You should bring him up to McCarran. I'm sure Hildern would like a look at him."

I muttered my thanks and got to my feet. ED-E approached, and I could have sworn he looked nervous. The little hero needn't have worried, I grabbed him out of the air and hugged him until I had an antennae up my nasal cavity. I made a mental note to tell him not to play that fucking song anymore though.

Then Lee told his men to kill Gerry and Meyers.

When I look back now, sitting in this office, I don't quite know why I did it. I don't know why I had to save these two men, both of whom I barely knew and both of whom were in prison. For all I knew, Gerry was just using me to escape from this hell-hole and the look on Meyers' face when I spoke with Lee was murderous. But there I was, standing between two law-breakers and fifteen guns, pleading for their lives.

It took every ounce of my persuasive skills to convince Lee. I laid out the plan that seemed to be formulating and coming out of my mouth all of it's own accord. Lee listened passively, thinking it over. I could see he didn't want to waste any more lives in a battle than he had to. He probably knew the same stories I did. And then he nodded.

* * *

_Holotape found in the warden's office of the NCRCF._

_Confirmed date of recording October 24__th__ 2281. 'DC' denotes Darron the Courier. 'ED' denotes Eddie, ringleader of the NCRCF Powder Gangers and 'SC' denotes Scrambler, his bodyguard._

ED- "You have some balls, I'll give you that. Shame I'll have to cut them off. Scrambler-"

DC- "Listen to me, you little prick. NCR are camped at your door, and I'm the only person who can stop them from turning your head into a spike-warmer. So cut that aggressive bullshit out, and listen to me."

ED- "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to, asshole?"

DC- "One more chance, Eddie. I mean it. Either listen to me, or die."

ED- "Fuck you."

DC- "…Fine. Then maybe your bodyguards will listen. The rest of you, NCR have an offer for you. If you accept, your slates will be wiped clean, and you'll be free to go wherever you wish. I know you may hold grudges. I know NCR may have wronged you. Believe me, you're not the only ones. I've spent time in places no better than this, all because of that fucker hanging on the wall behind your miniscule leader. You know what happened? He was in the Hub, campaigning or some such shit. I wouldn't salute him when he passed by. And then, when he challenged me about it? I told him to go and fuck himself. That's how I ended up living in pitch darkness for three months. So for those of you thinking that I am an NCR sympathizer, you couldn't be more wrong. I'm not in here at some soldier's behest. It's the complete opposite. Their plan was to blast the door to pieces and murder every one of you. But I for one am sick of those bastards rolling over everyone. Every person in this building has something to offer, and I'm not having that wasted. Now if you want to take your chances and try and fight your way out of here, you do that. But if you want to walk out of here free men, all you have to do is one thing. You see that midget in the chair there, and that murdering bastard beside him with the ridiculous haircut? Help me kill them, and when you're done, lay down your weapons and walk out the door with me. That's all that I ask."

ED- "Wait… Guys, wait!"

SC- "Bring it on."

* * *

_Journal pages found in the warden's office of the NCRCF._

_Confirmed date of writing October 24__th__ 2281._

The slaughter was quick.

There were twenty surviving men, not counting Eddie and Scrambler. I took Eddie myself, Sleepytime stitching a crimson pattern from his stomach to his face as he fumbled with the Plasma Pistol at his hip. Scrambler killed three men with his Brass Knuckles before he went down, cursing loudly even as he died. When it was over, I thanked the Powder Gangers and they followed me from the blood spattered room, dropping their weapons to the floor as per my request. I could sense the nervousness, the fear of betrayal even now. I did my best to ease their fears and we walked into the dry heat together.

Lee stood in the yard, surrounded by his squadron. ED-E beeped happily when he spotted me and zoomed over to hover near my left ear. Meyers and Gerry were less overt about their joy, but I could see the relief on their faces once they worked out that the plan was proceeding nicely and that Eddie hadn't managed to have me murdered. Gerry had acquired a strange looking assault rifle from somewhere, black with an ivory muzzle. Meyers had taken my 20 gauge for his own.

The Powder Gangers bunched together behind me, staring straight ahead as I shook Lee's hand and told him Eddie was dead. His grin was wide as he raised his arm and signalled to his men in the watchtowers and the soldiers who had waited in the shadows on either side of the administration building. The Powder Gangers had failed to notice that they were being encircled, intent on my interaction with Lee.

Lee spoke to them for a few seconds, telling them that were enemies of the state and were to be eliminated with extreme prejudice. They barely got time to scream.

When it was done Lee told me he would spread word of my deeds among his friends in the NCR, particularly his boss, Lieutenant Hayes. I know that I can't stop soldiers from talking, so before long people will know what happened here and my part in it. Tales get shaped and twisted in the telling sometimes, so apart from any benefits to my memory, the reason I've taken the time to write my account of this day down is so that people might know the truth. I butchered those men. But they were butchering the Mojave, and I chose the lesser of two evils. NCR are a lot of things, but I'd rather have them than glorified raiders any day. Sergeant Lee might get a medal for his part today; I just want to forget about it.

I doubt I will sleep tonight, but I don't feel like writing anymore.

* * *

_Addendum_

_Sir, the account in this journal is… disturbing, to say the least. The Courier's ruthlessness is alarming, and the company he keeps can be best described as less than savory. We have tried to do some digging on this 'Gerry' character, and have come up with no information at all._

_On a positive note, we may be able to blackmail the Courier with this information if we need to._

_I hope the next courier carries happier news to you, sir._


End file.
